


The Obelisk of Fen'Harel

by nlans



Series: Cecily Trevelyan [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Comics), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7904680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/pseuds/nlans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naia and Zevran team up with Alistair and Evie to find an artifact stolen by one of the Dread Wolf's disciples. The search takes them to the last person Alistair wants to see: the woman who gave him up at birth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crowns

_Vigil’s Keep, 9:34 Dragon_

“Come in!”

Even through the thick wooden door, Alistair could hear the annoyance in Naia’s voice. It belatedly occurred to him that he was showing up on the doorstep of a very busy person, the leader of an ancient order of Darkspawn-fighting warriors, to beg for advice about his personal life.

On the other hand, she was his best friend. And he had no one else to ask.

He pushed open the door with a slightly sheepish smile. “Is this a bad time?”

Watching Naia’s face go from sour to delighted made his late-night trip through the rain worth every freezing second. “Alistair!” She leapt from the desk, her arms held out to embrace him. “Thank the Maker it’s you. I thought it was Nathaniel with more charts, or maybe some poor recruit with more letters from Weisshaupt.”

He hugged her back. “Weisshaupt? What do they want?”

“More Warden nonsense.” Naia rolled her eyes. “And it’s not nearly as important as whatever brought you here in this weather. Andraste’s ass, you’re freezing. Come sit by the fire.”

Alistair hung his sodden cloak on a set of iron hooks and sat on the battered rug in front of the fireplace. Vigil’s Keep was still being rebuilt, and visitors’ chairs for the Warden-Commander were apparently not high on the list of items to be purchased. He didn’t mind. The blaze warmed the ache in his icy muscles, and he extended his hands towards it like a tragic orphan in one of those Satinalia tales.

Naia sat cross-legged next to him, her expression curious. “What’s going on?”

“I need you to take a look at something.” Without further ceremony, Alistair pulled a slightly damp stack of folded parchments from his pocket and shoved them at Naia. “Tell me which ones you think I should consider.”

Naia peeled the parchments apart and began to read the first one, her eyebrows raised high. “Lady Marin Fortham,” she recited. “Twenty-five, daughter of Bann Eleanor Fortham, noted for her embroidery and beautiful singing voice …”

“Oh. Not that one,” Alistair said hurriedly. “Fergus Cousland just started courting her and they seem happy. Start with the next one.”

Naia lowered the parchments and looked up at him. “Alistair. Are these—you want me to help pick you a _wife_? Off a _list_?”

“Well, if you put it like that, it just sounds silly,” Alistair complained.

His friend returned her gaze to the papers, her brow knit and her expression baffled. “Please tell me you didn’t make this list yourself.”

“No, no. Eamon gave me the list this afternoon. Then he gave me that _look_ of his.” Alistair ran his newly-warmed hands through his damp hair. “Apparently the bannorn is awash with discontent over my bachelor status. Ferelden needs a Queen.”

“Eamon can’t _really_ expect you to pick a wife from a list of facts on a parchment.” Naia looked further down the list. “The Teyrna of Gwaren? He’s suggesting _Anora?_ ”

“I think he put her in there to make the others look better.” Alistair remembered the look the Teyrna had given him at the last gathering of the bannorn and suppressed a shudder. If he married Anora he’d have to start watching his food to make sure she didn’t put anything in it. “I’ve met almost everyone on the list, save a few from more remote bannorns. I’m supposed to select two or three candidates to consider more seriously, get to know them better, and take care of this Queen business by the end of the year.”

Naia’s mouth dropped open. “Alistair, that’s no way to pick someone you have to live with for the rest of your life! What if you don’t love any of these women?”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m not sure love has very much to do with political marriages. Eamon says affection often grows over time. He claims that’s how it was between my father and Cailan’s mother—though I’ve heard it said she loved Loghain first.”

Naia shook her head, baffled. “I don’t—if she loved Loghain why did she marry Maric?”

“The usual reasons. Defending the country, securing the throne, the future of Ferelden, et cetera.” He sighed. “And now it’s my turn.”

Naia frowned down at the parchments, then looked back up at him. “No, it isn’t. At least, it doesn’t have to be.”

“Naia, you don’t understand …”

“Yes, I do. I understand that everyone wants you to produce a pack of cute little Theirin heirs to secure the throne. But we still haven’t figured out a way to reverse the Taint’s effects.” She wrinkled her nose. “Weisshaupt has been extremely unhelpful about that, by the way.”

“I think they’re still grouchy about that mage who was cured,” Alistair said. “Legend has it they actually kicked her out.”

“At any rate. If you want my advice, here it is.” Naia slapped the parchments down on the rug with a decisive _thwack._ “Ignore everyone who’s pushing you to find a Queen. You should marry someone you love. You deserve at least _that_ much for yourself. And if anyone argues with you about it, remind them that it’s your ass in that throne. What’s the point of being King if you can’t be completely selfish every now and then?”

She arched an eyebrow at Alistair’s expression. “Don’t tell me you really thought I’d help you pick a wife off a list,” she said wryly.

Alistair opened his mouth to argue—then closed it again. He hadn’t thought that, he realized. And that was why he had come.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are ridiculously idealistic, Naia Tabris?”

“Oh, every day,” Naia said, her smile full of mischief. She lifted the stack of parchments. “So can I toss these in the fire now?”

“Please,” Alistair replied feelingly.

 

* * *

 

_Denerim, 9:45 Dragon_

“Unfair!” Evie shrieked, shivering as the ice melted into her hair and down her collar. She turned her head to glare at Alistair, who was innocently packing another handful of snow into the palm of his hand. Behind him, Denerim’s squat military palace sparkled in the fresh snowfall, turned pretty and almost magical by the soft white blanket.

“I’m sorry, but the first snowfall means snowballs,” the King informed her seriously. “It’s a law here in Ferelden. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Evie answered by grabbing at a handful of snow herself. She managed to dodge Alistair’s next projectile, then laughing, she flung her own snowball directly at his head. It exploded against his cheek in a satisfying _puff_ of snowflakes.

“You realize, I hope, that we’re a ridiculous cliché right now?” she observed, grabbing another handful of snow as he wiped the melting ice from his face.

“Nonsense. We’re just being traditional. Now, if I tackled you into a snowbank, _that_ would be ridiculously clichéd.” His eyes twinkled mischievously as he swatted her next snowball away.

“Don’t you dare,” Evie laughed. She reached for his hand and stepped close, standing on her toes for a kiss. With a grin, Alistair bent his head to hers, his mouth cold and warm all at once.

At times like this, Evie could almost forget everything around them—could forget that there were always political problems to worry about, that Alistair lived under the threat of the Calling, and oh yes, that an ancient elven god was working on a charming little plan to end the world.

But she could never entirely forget the question she still didn’t know how to answer.

The Ferelden bannorn was rife with gossip about why Alistair had not yet proposed to her. So far as Evie knew, no one had guessed the real reason—that he wasn’t sure she would say yes. She loved him; she was certain of that _._ But she could not stop the Calling, and she could not follow him when it came. Marrying Alistair would, one day, mean ruling Ferelden alone, and Evie found that idea absolutely terrifying.

Alistair understood, of course. He had never wanted to be a King. Every time they discussed it, that sweetness and understanding broke her heart a little bit. She wanted to take the leap—to just tell the man she loved that yes, she would wear the damned crown if it meant being by his side. But when Evie imagined herself on that throne, her stomach wobbled and she got the strangest urge to flee to the harbor and board the next ship to Antiva.

She pushed that thought away and slid her arms around Alistair’s neck, pulling him close, trying to block out not only the cold but the little stream of worries that nagged at her. A soft _crunch_ of snow, however, startled them both into breaking the kiss.

An elven woman was standing several paces away. Her red hair was mostly concealed under a heavy furred hood, but deep in the shadows of her cowl, Evie could see a jagged scar running down the right side of her face. The woman raised her right hand apologetically. “Sorry, Alistair. They told me you were out here, but didn’t tell me you had company.”

As Evie untwined her arms from his shoulders, Alistair gave the woman a look halfway between “I’m glad to see you” and “I’m going to strangle you.”

“Ahem. I don’t believe you two have met yet. Evie, this is Naia Tabris, better known as the Hero of Ferelden. Naia, this is Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, who definitely does _not_ work for Divine Victoria.”

Naia extended her hand; when Evie caught it, her grip was firm and energetic. “It’s nice to meet you at last, Lady Evelyn.”

“Likewise. And please, call me Evie.” She hoped Naia could not see how nervous she was. The Hero of Ferelden was a living legend; more importantly, she was Alistair’s best friend, as close to him as a sister. Evie was not usually anxious about impressing anyone, but her relationship with her own sister-in-law was not exactly friendly, and the idea of being at odds with Alistair’s only real family made her stomach vibrate with nerves.

_Maker, if she doesn’t hate me, I promise I’ll be so much nicer to Lyssa from now on._

“Evie, then,” the elf agreed casually, apparently not noticing Evie’s silent prayer. “Actually, I’m glad I caught you both here—not that I meant to interrupt what looked like a very romantic kiss in the snow, I’m quite sorry about that. But I’m here on Nightingale business.”

Evie and Alistair glanced at each other and took a sharp, simultaneous inhale of breath. “Oh,” said Evie. “I suppose we’d better go inside, then.”


	2. The Obelisk

Naia followed Alistair and Lady Evelyn— _no, Evie, I’d better get used to that_ —as they led the way through the palace halls towards Alistair’s study. She hung back a bit, watching the two of them together, the way they brushed bits of snow from each others’ clothes and hair, their fingers lingering just a bit longer than they needed to.

She knew Alistair had been courting Evie for the better part of a year. It had been hard to imagine at times. Alistair had kept company with several women since the Blight, but none with the sort of rank required of a King’s potential wife. As Alistair had remarked more than once, it was hard for a Chantry-raised ex-Warden to find much in common with the average Bann’s daughter.

Naia thought she was beginning to understand why her friend had fallen so hard for this particular Bann’s daughter, however. Evie was lively and cheerful, her smile easy and her grey eyes bright with affection whenever she looked at Alistair. For his part, Alistair seemed more relaxed with her close; the worry lines on his face that had been deepening over the years were softer, his smile wider.

_It’s good to see him happy._

_But how much of her smile is about him, and how much is about that bloody crown?_

When they reached the King’s study, Alistair paused to unlock it, only to discover that the door was slightly ajar. With a sigh, he pushed it the rest of the way open. “I see that you picked my lock, again. And you found the liquor cabinet.”

“Aha! Well met, my noble King of Ferelden. You are most generous to keep Antivan spirits in your study for me.” Zevran swept an elaborate bow as the three entered the room, somehow managing to spill not a drop from the bottle as he did.

“It’s for visiting Antivan dignitaries, actually,” Alistair groused, but without real heat. “Evie, this is Zevran Arainai. Naia keeps him around for some reason. Zevran, this is Lady Evelyn Trevelyan.”

Zevran bowed his head in Evie’s direction. “It is a singular pleasure, my Lady.”

“Likewise,” Evie said, bobbing a demure little curtsy. “I look forward to seeing how many of Alistair’s stories about you are true.”

Zevran tilted his head back with a merry laugh. “Beautiful and mischievous. You have fortune beyond your deserving, my old friend.”

“You would know,” Alistair retorted wryly as he locked the door. “Now then. Don’t keep us in suspense. Shall we hear what this Nightingale business is about?”

Naia unwrapped her cloak and settled into one of Alistair’s comfortable chairs by the fire. Zevran poured himself a tiny snifter of Antivan spirits—more to tease Alistair than for any other reason, Naia suspected—and sat in the chair at her side. She waited a beat for Alistair and Evie to take their own seats before beginning.

She decided to get to the point as quickly as possible. “I need you to get us into the College of Enchanters at Lake Calenhad.”

Alistair blinked; his eyebrows knit together. “What? Why? Not that I won’t help you, it’s just … why?”

“About a month ago, one of Dorian Pavus’s contacts got wind of a robbery in Minrathous. A magister was killed when someone broke in to steal his collection of antiquities.” The memory of the burgled mansion, its rich carpets covered in glass and blood, rose in her mind’s eye. It looked like an amateur job, but it was so _aggressively_ amateurish that it almost had to be the work of professionals, and killing a magister was no easy task. _Fen’Harel has some dangerous allies._

She continued her story. “There’s one item that never found its way to the black market. It’s an ancient obelisk—a small one, about two feet high—carved with a bunch of elven runes and the image of Fen’Harel.”

“At first we thought it had merely been broken in the robbery. Burglars are not always the most careful of criminals, after all,” Zevran continued.

“I beg your pardon.” Naia laid her hand over her heart in mock offense.

“Except, of course, for the fabled Dark Wolf, whose identity remains a mystery to this very day,” Zevran amended smoothly.

Alistair rolled his eyes. “Right. You’re both adorable. Can we get back to the obelisk?”

“As you command, my King.” Zevran toasted him with his glass of spirits. “We soon discovered that the obelisk was shipped out of the Imperium in a most secretive manner—and it is bound, I am afraid, for the College. We suspect one of the College's mages is working with Fen'Harel.”

“What does it do?” Evie asked practically.

“We are not certain.” Zevran frowned, annoyed by the gap in his knowledge. “The dead collector fancied himself a researcher, and bought only items that he thought might have power. It may do nothing. But somehow I do not think so.”

Evie grimaced. “I suppose that means dealing with the College’s Grand Enchanter.” She glanced over at Alistair with a concerned frown.

Naia sat back in her chair, torn between relief and surprise. _Did he tell her, too?_ “Yes. And Fiona’s been touchy about outsiders—too many angry people still blame mages for everything that’s happened since Kirkwall. If we show up on her doorstep and say ‘let us search your tower so we can figure out which one of you is in an elven apocalypse cult,’ I don’t think we’re going to get a warm welcome.”

“No, I imagine not.” Alistair’s voice was flat and unreadable; not even Naia could tell what he was thinking.

“And that’s where you come in, Alistair,” Naia finished. She hated asking him to do anything even remotely related to Fiona, but it really was the best solution. “Can you use your Kingly influence to get us inside? They sort of owe you, since you revoked the rebels’ exile in order to let them have Kinloch Hold.”

“I can do better than that.” Alistair stood and crossed to his desk. “Let’s see. Somewhere in this mess—ah, yes.”

From the depths of a bottom drawer, Alistair pulled out a large, neatly folded letter. Something about it looked expensive to Naia, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on what—maybe it was the large blood-red wax seal.

“This fancy parchment invites the King of Ferelden to personally visit the new College of Enchanters.” Alistair unfolded it and examined its contents. “They sent it over a year ago, but it doesn’t say the offer expires. I assume I can bring friends. You can usually bring a lot of people along if you’re King.”

Naia and Zevran exchanged an alarmed glance. Across the room, Naia could see Evie looking between them, trying to guess how much they knew about Alistair’s relationship to the College’s leader.

Alistair set the invitation on the desk and sighed loudly. “Let me save everyone some time. Yes, everyone here knows that Fiona’s my mother. But no, I’ve never talked to her about it, and no, I never plan to. And yes, I am perfectly capable of going in and out of the Circle Tower without making a scene. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a King on an official state visit to someone who owes me quite a lot of political favors. Nothing more.”

“There could be other ways to get inside the College,” Evie said quietly. “Fiona and Vivienne are both trying to get Cecily to pick a side between the College and the new Circle. If Cecy asks Fiona I’m certain she’d let me visit.”

“What, and miss a return to scenic Lake Calenhad, where I spent a delightful day and a half imprisoned in the Fade?” Alistair folded the parchment back up with a flourish. “No, I’ve got my heart set on this trip now. When do we leave?”


	3. Inheritance

“‘Oh, no, I can pack my own clothing, no need to send anyone up.’ Brilliant, Alistair. Utterly brilliant.” He glared at the contents of his traveling trunk. “How in the Maker’s name did I wind up with five pairs of shoes and no socks?”

“Aha!” From across the bedroom, Evie held a small vial aloft with a triumphant smile. “I knew I had more somewhere.”

“Naia and Zevran could have loaned you some knockout powder, you know,” Alistair observed as she tucked the vial into her trunk. “Between the two of them they have enough to incapacitate most of Ferelden.”

“But this is Inquisition knockout powder. Dagna’s special recipe. It’s been something of a good-luck charm.” Evie shut the lid of her trunk with a decisive nod. “I think I have everything, though I’ll want to visit my room to be sure.” For propriety’s sake, Evie kept her own chambers in the guest wing, though she spent fewer and fewer nights there of late.

She crossed the room to pull several pairs of socks out of Alistair’s wardrobe. “Here. What else do you need?”

“Everything, probably,” Alistair sighed. “I’m not usually this hopeless, I swear.” 

“Well, there’s been a lot to think about,” Evie said diplomatically, removing a stack of tunics and smallclothes. “Is—ah, is there anything you want to talk about?”

“The plan, you mean?” Alistair asked, deliberately obtuse. “I think it’s quite a good one. You and I meet with the Grand Enchanter, Naia and Zevran do their lockpicking and find our obelisk, we leave as quickly as possible. Unless you wanted to do the lockpicking. I’m sure Naia would switch places with you.”

“No, I’m happy to play the vapid diplomat. Maybe Fiona will be so dazzled by the Trevelyan name that she’ll give us tours of everyone’s personal quarters and someone will be keeping the obelisk on their bedstand.” Evie placed the clothing into his trunk and looked up at him, arching one dark eyebrow. “Speaking of Fiona, how do you feel about seeing her?”

 _There was no avoiding this, I suppose._ “Oh, marvelous. It will be splendid to catch up,” Alistair said airily. “I’ve been regretting that we grew apart after she abandoned me as a baby.”

He’d meant to leave it there, but of a sudden more words seemed to be bursting from his mouth of their own accord. “Do you know, she’s still never said one word to me about any of it? She told Naia and then tried to swear her to secrecy.” He laughed; the sound had no humor in it. “Naia gave her six months to tell me herself. I don’t know why. After more than three decades of ignoring my existence, anyone could have told her that half a year wasn’t going to make a difference.”

That was the angriest he’d ever been with Naia—even angrier than after Isolde’s death. He still couldn’t help a flash of annoyance that Naia had waited to tell him, that she’d given Fiona another six months to hold her silence. But his friend was softhearted when it came to second chances.

“She might want to talk about it now,” Evie suggested. “She must know that Naia has told you.”

“Or she might think Naia kept her secret after all.” He sighed. “I’m content to pretend I don’t know. I don’t—there isn’t anything she could say. Or that I could say either, I suppose.”

Evie twined her fingers through his. “I can’t help but feel that she owes you the effort. But I see why it must not seem worth the trouble, after all these years.”

Alistair squeezed her hand, absurdly grateful that she understood. “There were so many times when all I wanted in the world was a family. Maric wasn’t going to win any prizes for being my father, but at least he tried now and again. Even after he died, she never …”

“You were alone for so long,” Evie finished. Her mouth turned down unhappily. “She could have changed that, and she didn’t.”

“I shouldn’t complain too much. The Templars weren’t much fun, but then I had the Wardens, and the people I met during the Blight.” Alistair kissed her hand. “And now I have you.”

Evie smiled and squeezed his hand, but something nervous flickered in her expression. Alistair’s heart twisted. He almost asked her if she had been thinking more about marriage—but he did not want to pressure her.

She sensed the thought anyway. “Alistair, I want you to know ...” She swallowed and met his eyes. “I may not be ready, not yet—but I _do_ love you. Never doubt it.”

Alistair cupped her face in his right hand and gently brushed her cheek with his thumb. “Then I am very lucky indeed.”

One day, he knew, that wouldn’t be enough. _But it’s enough for now._


	4. The College of Enchanters

Evie had visited Cecily at the Ostwick Circle many times during her childhood. Like all of the Circles, it had been remote—it had taken almost a half day of travel to reach its gates from her family's Ostwick home—and rather fortress-like, with tall towers to see incoming visitors and heavy stone walls to keep the mages inside.

But Cecily’s Circle almost looked friendly when compared with the one at Kinloch Hold. The tower stood on a small island in the middle of the lake, huge and foreboding, far from any of the lake’s shores. The mages could come and go freely now, of course; the College operated a regular schedule of vessels that ferried people and goods to and from the island. But Evie’s chest constricted when she imagine what it had been like in the old days, when Lake Calenhad’s icy waters would have been a near-impassable barrier. Little wonder that Cullen hated to talk about his years in this place.

At her side, Alistair seemed to sense her misgivings. “Grim, isn’t it? I’ve no idea why the College chose this of all Circles as their home.”

“Hmm, it seems quite sensible to me,” Zevran said thoughtfully, looking out over the lake as their boat cut through the water. He raised a hand to his eyes, shielding them from the glare of the bright afternoon sun. “The lake makes it harder for anyone to charge at it with torches and pitchforks. A pity about the unpleasant history, but as they say, location is everything.”

“I just hope they evicted the sloth demons before settling in.” Naia’s fingers were tapping a silent, regular rhythm on the hilt of her belt knife. The Hero of Ferelden was constantly in motion, Evie had noticed; the movements were subtle, but always there.

Alistair squinted at the shore. “Oh, goody. They’ve hung some pretty banners out to welcome us.”

The Theirin family crest was, indeed, hung to the right of the Tower door, mabari paws waving in the slightly foggy breeze. On the left hung a crest of arms Evie hadn’t seen before, a narrow, angular black staff on a gold-and-red field of embroidered branches. The design was quite modern, and looked a bit odd next to the centuries-old Theirin heraldry. Still, the noble side of Evie approved of the effort.

As the boat neared the shore, Evie could see the heavy doors of the tower opening, pulled by some invisible mechanism within. Naia and Zevran quietly faded back into the small cluster of servants and guards that made up the King’s party, and Alistair stepped to the front of the boat, his head high. Evie settled herself a step or two back and arranged her hands in their most ladylike fold at her waist. Unofficially, of course, everyone knew what she was to Alistair, but officially she was a mere Bann’s daughter and a foreigner besides—she would follow in the King’s footsteps.

She looked up in awe as they entered the tower’s bottom floor. From what she understood, Kinloch Hold had been extensively rebuilt following the Blight. The entrance to the tower had been remade into a grand receiving room, ringed with tall mirrors at regular intervals. A mosaic of marble tiles on the floor displayed the College’s coat of arms, and it shone even in the darkening afternoon light. Evie wondered if the effect was due to magic, or simply to clever architecture.

In the middle of the room, five mages waited in a line, each wearing a rich robe in the College’s gold-and-red colors. Their expressions ranged from curiosity to mild hostility. Evie sympathized; she could see why a visit from a King on less than twenty-four hours’ notice might be irritating.

At the center of the line, of course, stood Fiona.

The Orlesian mage was small even for an elf, fine-boned and delicate, with dark hair and bright eyes. Despite her stature she projected an air of cool authority, tinged with a faint sense of amusement around the edges. Evie found herself looking for hints of Alistair in Fiona’s face, but of course his father’s human blood dominated his features; there was little resemblance between them. The former Warden wore her hair cropped short, and the gold-and-red of her robes set it off to fine effect. Evie wondered idly if Fiona had chosen the College’s heraldry to suit her coloring.

The five mages bowed in ragged unison as Alistair approached. “Your Majesty,” Fiona murmured as she rose. “May I present the Council of High Enchanters?”

She gestured to a dark-skinned elven man at the right-hand end of the line. “This is Darrian, formerly of the Dairsmuid Circle.”

Darrian bowed his head respectfully. Next to him, a petite red-haired woman straightened and tried to hide her frown as Fiona introduced her. “Adrian, the former leader of the Libertarian Fraternity.”

The next Council member was an elderly human, well into his eighties, with a full grey beard and broad, kindly features. “This is Irving, once the First Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle—”

“Of course, Irving. Good to see you again,” Alistair said, nodding to him with a look of genuine respect.

The mage returned the nod in kind. “And you, your Majesty.”

“And finally Rhys, once the spokesman for the Aequitarians,” Fiona finished. The last mage, a handsome human with salt-and-pepper hair and a carefully groomed beard, bowed to Alistair. Evie recognized his name; according to Cecily, Rhys was a friend of Cole’s.

“A pleasure to meet you all,” Alistair said.

“The pleasure is ours. I cannot express how honored we are by your visit, your Majesty,” Fiona replied. Then she arched her eyebrow with just a hint of disapproval. “Though I fear our hospitality will seem limited with such little warning.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I was just passing through and thought I’d take a look.” Alistair was nervous, Evie realized; his voice was just a bit too loud, a bit too fast. “Besides, this is much better than the last time I visited you. Hardly a magister in sight.”

A very awkward silence fell. “That was a joke,” Alistair clarified.

Evie tapped her toe softly; Alistair heard the noise and smiled in relief. “Oh! Right. May I present my honored guest, Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, sister to the former Inquisitor?”

Evie stepped to Alistair’s side and bent her knees into a curtsy. “Grand Enchanter.”

Adrian cleared her throat. “High Enchanter.”

Evie blinked. “Pardon?”

“We five hold the rank of High Enchanter,” Rhys clarified, sending Adrian a quelling look. “We govern the College as a Council. We have no Grand Enchanter—though Fiona is considered first among equals.”

Adrian tried not to scowl, and failed. Darrian pinched the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a familiar headache. At Fiona’s other side, Irving leaned wearily on his staff and moved his lips. Evie suspected a silent prayer to the Maker.

“My apologies, then, High Enchanter.” Evie smiled brightly. “Regardless, I know Cecily would want me to say hello.”

“And please send my greetings to her as well. None of us have forgotten the Inquisitor’s efforts on behalf of Thedas’s mages,” Fiona replied. Her cool demeanor seemed unaffected by the hints of sniping among her Council. “Rhys and I have a tour of the College planned, if you are both amenable?”

“A tour? Marvelous. Absolutely.” Alistair clapped his hands together; the sound echoed through the receiving room. “Lead the way.”

Fiona bowed again. “I suggest we begin in the training yards. Rhys’s wife Evangeline mentors young warriors interested in turning the Templar arts towards less … destructive … goals.”

One by one, the High Enchanters moved towards the stairwell. When the Council’s backs had turned, Evie threw propriety to the wind and slid her hand into Alistair’s. He took a deep breath and smiled at her, then reluctantly let go of her fingers as he moved to follow the mages. Evie followed as close behind as she dared.

_Joke all you like, my love. I know this can’t be easy._


	5. Discoveries

Naia and Zevran each took a handle of Alistair's trunk and followed the College's servants as they were escorted to the guest chambers. Naia briefly wondered where Evie would be sleeping, and supposed it must be somewhere different when Lady Evelyn's trunk did not follow the King's. She winced. Bad enough that they'd dragged Alistair out to meet with Fiona, now he'd be sleeping alone as well.

The two elves pretended to busy themselves with preparing the King's bedchamber, but the moment the other servants' footsteps faded, they ceased their unpacking and unfolding and exchanged a silent nod. _Time to get to work._

They made their way back down the servants' staircase and walked straight for the College's docks, the most likely place for a shipping manifest to be kept. The College maintained a small office in a wooden boathouse, and through its window Naia could see a desk, a single chair, and two cabinets just the right size for storing books and papers. Fortunately no boats besides the King's were expected that day, and the office appeared empty. The door was warded to guard against nosy guests, of course, but the two of them had long since learned how to evade magical traps. It took them only a few more minutes than usual to gain entrance.

Naia headed to the desk as Zevran made for the cabinets. "Locked," she whispered, tugging on a drawer.

"These as well. Everyone is so terribly untrusting these days," Zevran sighed as he and Naia both pulled out their lockpicks.

Naia's efforts to open the largest desk drawer yielded only two Varric Tethras novels and a half-empty bottle of Ferelden single-malt. Zevran had more luck. When he opened the cabinet, he found a stack of bound ledgers, each recording shipments into and out of the College.

Zev passed the ledger on top to Naia; she opened it and began looking through its pages, searching for the most likely dates the artifact might have arrived. "I don't suppose they circled our shipment in red ink and wrote 'evil obelisk' next to it," she sighed.

"Alas, people are rarely that considerate," Zevran said wryly, lifting the second ledger and running a finger down its columns. He looked up at Naia with an arched eyebrow. "Now that we are alone, I am most curious—what do you make of Alistair's new companion?"

"I think I like her. I wasn't sure I would," Naia admitted. "Cecily Trevelyan's nice, but Maker, she and her husband are the most serious people I've ever met, and I've met Sten. I was worried her sister might be sort of—prim. Or another title-hunter. But Evie's got a sense of humor, and she's smart, and she clearly adores Alistair."

She paused. "What do you think?" In some ways she cared about Zev's opinion even more than her own. Her lover had an uncanny gift for taking a person's measure.

The former Crow smiled. "I quite agree. Beauty, intelligence, the rank to marry a King—I think our old friend has finally found his fortune, if he can convince her to wear a crown for him."

Naia paused mid-page. "You think she wouldn't?"

"I think she is adventurous, and still young, and wise enough to see that being Queen of Ferelden is not all fancy gowns and celebratory parades," Zevran said seriously.

The thought of Alistair having his heart broken because of that Maker-blighted crown made Naia's stomach drop. "At least she's here with him now, for this meeting with Fiona," she said, reaching for something like optimism. "Andraste's ass, I wish I'd thought to ask Cecily to get us in here. I don't want Alistair anywhere near that woman."

"He could not have avoided meeting her forever, not with the rank they both hold," Zevran pointed out.

"Would have been worth a try," Naia groused. Then she paused and raised her eyes to his. "Well, what do you know. I think I found our disciple."

Zevran stepped to her side so he could read over her shoulder. Naia pointed to the relevant entries. "Three shipments of artifacts over the past six months, all to a mage named Theron."

Her lover flashed her a playful, predatory grin. "Splendid. Let us see if we can wheedle the location of his rooms out of our fellow servants."

 

* * *

 

_This was a mistake. I knew it was a mistake. Why did I come here?_

The tour of the College of Enchanters had to rank among the most awkward events Alistair had ever attended, and there had been some spectacularly uncomfortable ones. Fortunately for Evie, she and Rhys's wife Evangeline had taken an almost instant liking to one another; the two of them, at least, were finding things to talk about as they wound through the College's rooms.But Alistair had exhausted his supply of idle conversation about the weather barely fifteen minutes into the tour and was having more and more difficulty feigning interest as Fiona and Rhys took turns pointing out the College's impressive grounds, staircases, and windows. 

And the entire time, Alistair could not stop thinking about the fact that the woman who had given birth to him was standing less than three feet away.

_Naia, you and Zev had better be finding something that makes this worth it._

"Well, I have to say the Tower looks better than it did the last time I was here," Alistair said, gamely trying to participate in the conversation as he looked around the library.

Fiona chuckled. "Yes, I imagine so. I've heard the tales of Uldred and his blood mages—many lives would have been lost if not for you and your friends. I met the Hero of Ferelden during my time at Skyhold, you know," she added. "A most impressive woman. I was sorry I could not help her."

Her voice was calm and casual; she sounded for all the world as if she were simply making idle conversation. _Does she really care that little?_

"Oh, yes. Naia did mention talking with you." Alistair ran a finger down the spine of a nearby book, and pulled it away when he realized that the title was about dung-based agricultural magic. "Shame about the Calling. We're still working on that. I don't suppose you know what happened to those bits of metal Remille gave you?"

"If I did, I would have turned them over to the Wardens long ago." Fiona's voice was just a bit sharp now. "My cure is not a prize I am hoarding for myself."

"Well, I know how these things can slip one's mind. You mean to do something, but before you know it, six months have gone by and it just doesn't seem worth the bother any more."

Even as he said it, he wanted to stop himself, wanted to swallow the words and avoid the issue. But his anger and hurt over Fiona's strange bargain with Naia had lingered too long at the front of his mind; he could not keep it in. 

For a moment he hoped that Fiona had missed his bitter reference, but when he looked at her face, it was pale and stiff. "Six months. Indeed," she replied, her voice dropping just a bit on the last word.

The High Enchanter's chest rose and fell as she drew a deep breath through her nose. She looked around the room, took a step forward, then pulled back her shoulders and turned towards him, her expression resolved. "The Warden-Commander gave you a _complete_ account of our conversation, then."

"Naia's a woman of her word." Alistair's throat constricted as he tried to think of what to say next.

Fiona pressed her lips together. "Perhaps, your Majesty, we should adjourn to my office to discuss this matter further? Since it concerns, ah, Warden business?"

Alistair wanted to decline the offer, but he knew that if he didn't, any minute now he was going to shout out something embarrassing in front of the entire College library. "I think that might be wise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Naia's conversation with Fiona at Skyhold, see http://archiveofourown.org/works/3125453/chapters/6803801.


	6. Theron

Evie caught only bits of the conversation between Alistair and Fiona, but it was enough to know that finally, one of them had let the secret slip. As Fiona made her excuses to Rhys and Evangeline, Evie met Alistair's eyes and tilted her head, silently asking if he wanted her to follow. Alistair shook his head. This was something he would have to do alone. 

Evie watched Alistair and Fiona leave the library with a mixed sense of relief and dread. Perhaps it would be better to have things out in the open between them—but few things cut at Alistair the way this secret had. Her stomach twisted in a nervous little knot.

Next to her, Rhys raised his eyebrows. "What might _that_ be about?"

Evie forced her worry from her face and tried to pretend that she'd expected this. "Naia and Alistair have been trying to reverse the effects of the Taint," she said nonchalantly. "There are probably Warden secrets he wants to discuss with Fiona. Poor woman, every Warden she meets must press her for the story of how she came by a cure."

To Rhys's credit, he didn't entirely seem to believe that explanation for why the King and a High Enchanter had just abandoned them mid-tour. The man was too clever by half for Evie's comfort. Fortunately, he let the matter drop.

Evie searched for a way to shift the conversation. "It must have been difficult, coming up with all the new rules for the College's governance," she mused as they walked along. "How did you decide there would be five High Enchanters?" _Yes, let's bore them into ending this tour early. Excellent strategy, Crofter._

Evangeline laughed. "It was the number of people who wanted the job."

"Indeed. I'm afraid there was no grand plan in place," Rhys admitted. "And there's still nothing official about the number five. A person of sufficient standing—perhaps, say, the former Inquisitor—could easily make the number six, if she were interested?" He arched an eyebrow at Evie.

"Leave the poor woman alone, Rhys," Evangeline said dryly.

"I apologize, Lady Evelyn." Rhys didn't sound particularly sorry, though he did give her a self-deprecating smile. "The College is simply eager to show mages that we can represent their interests more effectively than this new Circle in Orlais. Many of the most powerful Circle mages have joined Vivienne. Having someone like your sister, or the Champion of Kirkwall, on our Council might bring things back into balance."

"The Champion of Kirkwall?" Evie couldn't hide her surprise. 

Rhys nodded. "Thus far, all of our High Enchanters are former Circle mages. But our goal is to welcome all mages, no matter their background. I would like to see an apostate among our ranks. The Champion would be an ideal candidate."

"You ... may wish to seek others," Evie said tactfully. She had only met Hawke once, but she doubted that the prickly, sarcastic Champion would be showing up on the College's doorstep any time soon.

"Oh, we do," Rhys assured her. "There is one here in the Tower, in fact—an elven hedge mage. I've been trying to persuade him for months to take a more active role in the College."

"And I've been trying to persuade you to save your breath," Evangeline said wryly. "Theron is too wrapped up in his books and his artifacts to have much patience with College politics. Surely you've noticed how he goes out of his way to avoid Fiona."

 _Artifacts?_ Evie straightened. "Theron—the name sounds familiar. Was he with the Inquisition, perhaps?" she asked casually.

Rhys frowned. "I don't believe so." He glanced over at Evangeline.

"He hasn't said anything to me about the Inquisition either," Evangeline admitted. "But he rarely speaks of his past."

"He's clearly had some sort of formal training," Rhys said thoughtfully. "He knows more about spirits and the Fade than even Wynne did—though his theology is decidedly non-Andrastian."

Time seemed to slow around Evie. They had all assumed they were on the trail of one of Fen'Harel's disciples. But Rhys's brief description suggested something incalculably more dangerous.

_Please, Maker, let me be wrong._

The time for subtlety had passed. "Is Theron, by chance, a pale-skinned bald elf with a very formal way of speaking?"

Evangeline and Rhys exchanged looks. "Indeed he is," Rhys said finally. "Do you know him?"

"No," Evie replied faintly. "But my sister does."    


	7. Trapped

Evie's mind raced as she tried to decide what to do next. The Nightingales guarded their identities closely, telling only a few trusted individuals about their efforts to prevent Fen'Harel's apocalypse. That had been the entire point of dismantling the Inquisition, after all—making sure their efforts could remain a secret from Solas. She briefly considered telling Rhys and Evangeline nothing and seeking out Naia and Zevran, but that would take time she might not have. If Fen'Harel heard that the Inquisitor's sister was in the tower, he would almost certainly hide—or worse, leave with the obelisk.

_Cole trusts them. I hope we can, too._

She met Evangeline's eyes, and then Rhys's. "Theron isn't his real name. It's Solas. He was with the Inquisition while they fought Corypheus, but it turned out that he only wanted to stop Corypheus so he could destroy the Veil himself. He wants to restore the world of the ancient elves, when they were all immortal." She decided to save the part about him being the Dread Wolf for later. The story was hard enough to swallow as it was.

Rhys looked at her as if she had grown a second head. "That's preposterous. No one has that kind of power."

"Cecily thinks he might. And he's just had an ancient elven artifact shipped here that could be part of his plan." Evie turned to Evangeline. "Where might he be at this time of day?"

"In his rooms, or perhaps in our research laboratories in the cellars," Evangeline said, her eyebrows drawn together in bafflement.

Evie nodded. "Rhys, can you take me to his rooms? Evangeline, you look in the cellars. Don't ask him about being Solas, don't ask him about the Inquisition. Just find out where he is, and see if you spot an obelisk—it's about two feet tall and has elven symbols on it, and the image of the Dread Wolf. We'll meet back in the receiving room to put together a plan." That plan would almost certainly involve finding Naia, Zevran, and Alistair. She mentally apologized to Alistair for interrupting what had to be a momentous conversation, but she figured he'd forgive her under the circumstances.

"I'm sure you're wrong about Theron," Evangeline said, shaking her head. An odd silver haze flared at the edges of her eyes. "He's—he's been a friend."

"Cecy said the same thing," Evie replied quietly.

 

* * *

 

The mages' chambers took up several floors of the tower; fortunately, 'Theron' slept in a room only two flights up from the library. At her side, Evie could see Rhys wrestling with his conscience, debating whether to assist her with her task. She tried to keep her annoyance from her own expression. Normally Evie would have appreciated loyalty, but right now all she wanted was to get in and out of the elven mage's room as quickly as possible.

They stopped before a door and Rhys took a breath before knocking. "Theron?"

No answer came from within. Rhys gently tugged at the handle to the door; it moved a bit but did not open. Evie frowned at the iron lock. "Is it warded?" she asked quietly.

Rhys chuckled. "No. Few of us use magical locks around our fellow mages, Lady Evelyn."

Evie smiled in slightly sheepish acknowledgement of the point, then pulled out her lockpicks before Rhys could object. A moment later, the door swung open.

Theron's room was larger than Evie had expected. It took up a sizeable arc alongside the wall of the circular tower, and held not only a narrow bed, but two enormous desks covered in books and scribbled notes, along with a large bookshelf. The only other bit of furnishing was a large trunk that sat at the end of the bed. It was battered and covered in dark iron bands, and looked for all the world as if it had been salvaged off a trash heap. The cold grey stone and shabby furniture gave it the sparse feel of a prison cell, albeit a spacious one with windows.

Rhys looked around. "See? He keeps all of his artifacts in the research rooms. If he'd brought in anything dangerous I'm sure we would have ..."

Evie was only half listening to Rhys. Instead, she crossed the room to the trunk at the foot of the bed and tried her luck with its lid, sliding her fingers underneath the two metal handles near its corners. It was far heavier than she expected, but she braced her legs and put all of her strength into lifting it. Finally, with a loud, rusty _creak,_ it opened far enough for her to tip the lid back onto the foot of the bed.

Her heart pounding, Evie bent down and lifted out a dark clay obelisk.

The object was heavy, and so ancient and worn that the markings on its side were difficult to make out at first, but as her eyes adjusted, Evie could see that three of the obelisk's faces were covered in elven runes. She turned the obelisk carefully in her hands to reveal the fourth side. Cold certainty seized her as she beheld a drawing of a wolf.

She looked over at Rhys; his mouth was hanging open. "What in the Maker's name is that? With the trunk open I can feel its magic from here."

Evie turned and began to extend her arms to hand the artifact to Rhys. "Here. I'm no mage, perhaps you can—"

But Evie's words ceased abruptly when she suddenly found that she could not move her limbs.

She could feel magic surging through the air, suffusing her body. It was as if she'd been frozen with the artifact between her palms, too trapped by the magic to even struggle against her bonds. She met Rhys's eyes and saw that he, too, could no longer move; his hand hovered in midair, reaching for the obelisk.

As her panic rose and her breath quickened, Evie heard soft footsteps enter the room. A moment later, movement flickered at the corner of her eye. 

A male elf stepped slowly into her field of vision, his pale skin almost luminous in the afternoon light. His bare feet made only the quietest sounds against the stone floor as he moved. He came to a silent stop about two feet to Evie's left, then folded his hands behind his back and looked over them both—first Evie, and then Rhys.

Evie had never met Solas, but as the slim, bald elf took stock of their presence, his eyes both sorrowful and furious, she was somehow certain: the mage holding her captive was the Dread Wolf.


	8. Confrontation

Solas turned his attention to Rhys first. A silver-blue light flared in the elf's eyes; Rhys blinked, his face, at least, freed from the spell. "How long have you suspected?" Solas asked quietly.

Rhys cleared his throat. "I didn't. I was certain she was wrong. Theron, what—what is that artifact? Who are you?"

Solas pulled his shoulders back and seemed to consider answering, but then shook his head. "I am sorry, Rhys."

As Evie watched, trapped, unable to even scream, Solas's eyes flashed blue once more. Rhys's eyes widened, then closed. His form began to slump, but to Evie's surprise, Solas stepped forward to catch him. With surprising gentleness, the elf lowered the mage to the ground.

Evie could not ask what he had done to Rhys, but Solas seemed to sense the question nonetheless. "He lives, and will awake in time." He rose from his knees and met Evie's gaze, his eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "I do not believe I know you."

Suddenly Evie, too, could move her mouth. "You don't," she said shakily. "But I know you. Solas. Fen'Harel. Probably some other names besides those." She gritted her jaw. "And you cost Cecily an arm."

Understanding slowly spread over the elf's face. "Lady Evelyn Trevelyan. Of course. You have your sister's eyes." His expression grew sad for a moment. "Is that how the Inquisitor tells the story, then?"

"No," Evie said grudgingly, after a moment. "She says you saved her life."

The elf's mouth tightened; he looked almost guilty. "It is strange, is it not, how generously our friends see us?"

"You are _not_ her friend," Evie hissed. "You knew what that mark was from the beginning and you abandoned her with it for two years. It's a miracle it didn't blow her up and half of Skyhold with it. Not to mention the fact that you're trying to kill her along with everyone else in the world."

Solas's expression shuttered, became remote and cold. When he met her eyes again, Evie could tell he was looking at her differently—looking at her the way a god looks at a mere mortal.

"My task is set, Lady Evelyn, and is not for you to judge or understand. I will not harm you out of respect for your sister, but I must—"

The words were cut short when a knife embedded itself in Solas's back.

The control spell flickered—just for a second, but that second was enough. Evie flung the obelisk against the floor with all of her strength. The ancient clay smacked against the stone and shattered, the image of the Dread Wolf cracking right down the center.

" _No!_ " Solas howled, his face white with horror as the fragments rolled to a stop at Evie's feet. He barely seemed to take notice of the blade in his shoulder. "You thoughtless child! Have you any idea what that was?"

"No," Evie said, catching her breath. "But it had power, and you wanted it."

"Smashing it was the right call," Naia agreed from the doorway as she lowered her right arm. She stepped into the room, Zevran close behind her. "So. You're Fen'Harel."

Solas let out a bitter chuckle as he turned to face her. "Ah. Naia Tabris, the fabled Hero of Ferelden." He reached his left arm back for the knife's hilt and pulled it out, barely flinching as he did. Blood ran down his back, soaking into his rough tunic, but somehow Evie knew that he was not nearly as wounded as he should have been. "I know your tale. You were raised behind alienage walls, spat on by the humans who slaughtered your ancestors. And you, Zevran Arainai—orphaned in a brothel, bound in slavery to murderers. Why would you fight to defend this world, to prevent the restoration of our people?"

" _Your_ people _,_ not _ours_ ," Naia said defiantly. " _My_ people are mortal enough to die right alongside the shems if you get your way."

"I must admit I share my beloved's skepticism. I fail to understand how dying in an apocalypse would improve the experience of growing up with the Crows." Zevran's smile had a bright, dangerous edge to it. "Though perhaps you would like to come closer and explain it to me."

"I think not." 

Light shone in Solas's eyes, and suddenly Naia and Zevran were tumbling back away from the door, crashing into the wall opposite 'Theron's' room with a painful thud. They fell in a tangle of limbs. A moment later, Solas fled the room in a burst of inhuman speed, moving so quickly that his feet hardly seemed to touch the floor.

Naia and Zevran were on their feet again with remarkable ease, but they were still several paces behind the elven god when they began their chase. A heartbeat later, the control spell fell to pieces. Evie sucked air into her lungs and raced after them, her slippers pounding against the hard stone floor. 

_I knew I should have worn a knife under this dress._


	9. Promises

Fiona's office was on the tower's second floor, just one door away from the main stairwell. It was remarkably simple, with only two narrow windows and plain, comfortable furnishings. She had hung tapestries over the stone walls, turning a cold grey room into a much warmer, richer space. As Alistair closed the door behind them, the High Enchanter flicked her fingers and lit the fire; it flared to life with an ease that almost made Alistair jump.

Fiona stared at the blaze for a moment, then turned to him, her shoulders stiff and her expression strained. "I am afraid I do not know what to say."

"Yes, I figured that out from the three decades of silence," Alistair said. He hated the bitterness in his voice; it felt perilously close to whining. "You can't be that surprised. You must have known Naia would tell me."

Fiona let out a soft, unhappy chuckle. "I suspected, yes. When no word came from you, I concluded that you wanted nothing to do with me."

"That's, ah, fairly accurate," Alistair conceded. "So is that why _you_ never said anything, even after you told Naia? Because you wanted nothing to do with me?"

Fiona turned her face away. The firelight illuminated her delicate profile, made the silver strands in her dark hair shine. "I—I did not know how to approach you after Redcliffe, and I still believed it best that you not know. I suppose I allowed myself to hope she might take pity on me, or realize that it was not her business."

Alistair felt his temper rise, sending heat to his face, making his muscles tense. "You _made it_ her business when you told her you were my mother!"

"You are right. I did. It was a mistake." Fiona met his gaze, her face pale but composed. "You have every right to be angry, Alistair. But perhaps you can understand why I made the choices I did?"

Alistair took a deep breath, working desperately to reach for some calm. "I understand some of it, at least," he said, trying to be fair. "You had to go back to the Circle when you weren't a Warden any more—I know you couldn't have raised me yourself. But why tell Maric to lie about who you were? Who I was?"

Fiona sighed. "I did not want you to bear the stigma that would have come with having an elven mother—a mage, at that. I though that Maric could give you a good life, an easier one, if everyone thought you were fully human."

"I was a royal bastard, Fiona. An easy life was never going to be an option," he said quietly. "I was lucky the Wardens wanted me, or I'd probably be a lyrium-addicted wreck right now." _Or one of those dead Red Templars. That's ... disturbing._

"I told Maric to keep you away from court, but I never told him to send you to the blasted Templars." Real anger flashed in Fiona's face. "Duncan should have come for you earlier. He should have gotten you out before making you a Warden was the only option."

"Wait. _Duncan? Duncan_ knew you were my ... of course he knew." Alistair momentarily wondered if he might throw up. His mentor was long dead, sent to an early grave by Loghain's treachery, but even so he felt betrayed. And stupid. Duncan had always claimed he'd conscripted Alistair because he was impressed with Alistair's performance at that long-ago tourney. _How could I have believed that? I wasn't the best warrior there by any stretch, and I knew it._

Fiona's face fell as she watched him wrestle with this new knowledge. "I am sorry. Duncan was a friend, and he made me a promise, and ..."

All of the Kingly reserve Alistair had worked so hard to build up seemed to abandon him all at once. "I am so blasted _tired_ of promises!" he exploded. "I've had too many secrets kept from me because someone made someone else a promise once upon a time. Just once I'd like someone to realize that they made a bloody stupid promise and decide to tell me the truth after all."

Fiona opened her hands in a slightly helpless gesture as Alistair fought to calm himself, to catch his breath. An awkward silence fell between them; the crackling of the fire in the room seemed almost painfully loud.

"Why Naia?" he asked abruptly, crossing his arms across his chest. "After all those years of never telling me—why did you tell her?"

"It ... slipped out." Fiona winced at Alistair's scornful expression. "I realize how foolish that must sound. But almost everyone who knew the truth was dead, and I—after seeing you at Redcliffe, I could not stop wondering about you. If you were well. If the crown was as difficult for you as it was for your father."

She shook her head with a little laugh. "And then your friend came to Skyhold, and she was so furious with me about the problems I'd caused you in Redcliffe. I could see how close you two must be." She dropped her gaze to her hands. "I—I suppose I could not resist the opportunity to talk with someone else who loved you."

Alistair's heart twisted in his chest. _Love me? You don't even know me._

He almost said those words out loud—almost told Fiona that if she'd loved him, she wouldn't have ignored him for thirty-five years. But then he saw the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"I have thought about you every day since I left you with your father," the mage continued, wiping her eyes with her thumb. "The choices I made—I made them to protect you, because I thought my absence was the best and only gift I could give you." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Perhaps I was wrong. I am sorry, if I was."

It was such a thin, small apology that Alistair almost laughed. But Fiona's obvious distress stopped him. There was no apology, no conversation, that would change the choices she had made—or the ones he had made. _This is hard for her too._

"I don't know if you were wrong," he said quietly, after a moment. "I would have traded a great deal to know I had family. But who can say what would have happened if I had known—if others had found out? The Landsmeet probably wouldn't have accepted a half-elven King." _And would that have been a good thing, or a bad one?_

"Your father had that same look in his eyes when he talked about being King." Fiona's voice was both warm and sad. "Given a choice he would not have worn the crown, I think. But Ferelden needed him, and he was too good a man to turn away."

"I—perhaps sometime, I can hear more about how you two met," Alistair suggested tentatively.

Fiona nodded, some of the tension easing from her face. "Of course. I would like that."

Whatever she was going to say next, however, was interrupted by frantic shouting from the stairwell.


	10. Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Medium-ish spoilers for _Dragon Age: Asunder._

This wasn’t the first time Naia had had a powerful spell thrown at her, but the ease with which Solas had tossed her against a wall still unnerved her. As she and Zev raced after him, it occurred to her that up until today, she had been thinking of Fen’Harel as a very old mage who came with a legend attached—a powerful foe, but one who could be defeated. But she hadn’t felt magic that intense since her long-ago battle with Flemeth, if ever.

_Maybe there’s more to this god thing than I thought. Shit._

Well, god or not, they had to try to stop him.

Solas flung open the door to the stairwell, Naia and Zevran a handful of paces behind him. Light as a Dalish halla, the mage raced down the steps on near-silent feet—but Naia soon realized that they were gaining on him. Or perhaps he was slowing, she thought optimistically; she ought to get _some_ reward for putting a knife in his shoulder.

As he reached the landing on the tower’s second floor, Naia was just half a staircase behind him. Recklessly, she leapt over the final stairs, flying through the air towards her quarry. He had only begun to turn his head to look back when her body collided with his, sending them both crashing to the stone floor.

Naia recovered first. Lightning-quick, she straddled the other elf and grappled for his wrists—but then he looked up at her and silver-blue light filled his eyes. A blast of wind caught Naia in the stomach and flung her against the wall. The blow was harder than before, and Naia felt her head crack ominously against the stones. Black spots blurred her vision and she slumped to the floor, trying to catch her breath and not vomit.

Solas stood, but Naia’s leap had bought Zevran just enough time to reach the landing. The former assassin struck the mage across the jaw and delivered a furious, brutal kick to Solas’s knee, sending Solas crashing to the floor. The mage caught himself and stared at Zevran; again, his eyes shone silver-blue. Zevran sagged and fell to the ground, utterly still. Solas stood, wincing, and began descending the stairs once more.

Evie reached them just a second later. “Naia! Zevran!”

“I’m fine,” Naia gasped. That wasn’t quite true; her head was still vibrating and the world was still spinning. She tried to stand, realized she couldn’t, and resigned herself to crawling towards Zev. Relief flooded her when she saw his chest rise and fall. _Asleep. Asleep, not dead._ “Go! I’ll catch up if I can.”

Evie nodded and ran for the final flight of stairs. “Evangeline!” she screamed down the stairwell. “Are you there? Don’t let him get away!”

As Evie turned the corner and fell away from view, Naia gritted her teeth and tried to pull herself to a stand once more. For a moment she thought she would fall, but suddenly the door to the second floor opened, revealing Alistair and Fiona.

Her fellow Warden immediately leapt to her side and steadied her. “Naia! What in the Maker’s name …”

“Fen’Harel. He’s here,” she panted, clutching for the wall. “Down the stairs. Evie went after him.”

*

Alistair was barely conscious of moving his feet, but suddenly he was at the bottom of the stairwell, barreling into the heavy wooden door leading out into the reception hall. As his palms struck the lacquered wood of the door, however, a hand caught him by the shoulder.

“Be cautious, Alistair!”

Alistair jumped slightly at the Orlesian accent; he’d expected Naia. “I’ve been in a battle or two before, you know.”

“As have I.” Fiona drew herself up tall, and for a moment, Alistair saw flickers of the former Grey Warden. “I do not know what you may face beyond that door, but we would be fools to give up the advantage of surprise. If we are quiet, your foe may not hear us.”

She had a point. Alistair nodded, then cautiously, using every ounce of stealth he’d learned from Naia and Zev, he eased the door open on silent hinges.

Three figures stood in the receiving room, their forms casting a labyrinth of reflections in the mirrors that ringed the walls. The Templar Evangeline stood with her sword drawn and her shield forward, her expression determined but warrior-calm. A slender elf wearing ragged trousers and a blood-soaked tunic stared back at her, his form tense. Even without a drop of lyrium in his veins, Alistair could feel the magic coiling around him, gathered close and ready for use. Beside him, Fiona caught her breath, her eyes widening.

Evie stood off to the right, half on her toes, frighteningly immobile as she stared at Evangeline and Fen’Harel. The mage’s right hand was extended to the side, his fingers curled as if clenching an invisible ball. With a sick, sinking feeling Alistair realized why—he was using his magic to hold Evie in place. The spell surrounded her like a cocoon, wrapping her in its bonds. While her face was still, Alistair could see frustration and fear in her eyes; he felt his own frustration and fear rise to match.

If Solas noticed that the King and a High Enchanter had joined them, he did not show it. His attention seemed fully focused on the Templar. “I do not wish to hurt you, my friend,” the elf said gravely. “Or Lady Evelyn, or your vessel.”

“Then let her go.” Evangeline’s voice startled Alistair. A deep echo curled around her words, vibrating with magic—just the way Wynne had sounded when her spirit companion had shown itself. With a start, he realized that Solas was not speaking to Evangeline at all, but to a spirit who rode within her form.

“Lay down your sword and let me pass.” Solas’s chest rose and fell rapidly; a drop of blood fell to the stone beneath him, joining a small red pool at his heel. Alistair felt some of the magic coiling around him disappear as he drew it in to heal himself. “I mean you no harm, but I cannot allow myself to be hindered.”

Something shifted in Solas’s magic; Alistair felt the mage gather his power close, ready to make his move. From the way Evangeline raised her shield a fraction higher, he knew she felt it too.

_I don’t know what he’s planning. But I think I’d rather not find out._

As Solas’s magic began reaching out, Alistair threw himself between Solas and Evie, barely aware of Fiona’s panicked gasp behind him. He pushed every ounce of his training into a Smite. Light roared from his body, slamming into the elven mage, and Alistair grinned in relief as the spell surrounding Evie crumbled.

His relief was short-lived. He expected Solas to stumble—it was an awfully good Smite, all things considered—but instead, the elven mage seemed to absorb the Smite’s magic. He curled his lip and flung it back at Alistair in one swift, brutal burst.

The half-formed spell caught Alistair hard across the chin, its power exploding around him on impact. He felt his head snap back, and then everything went black.


	11. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short update--and on further reflection this should have been part of Chapter 10, but oh well! The good news is all that restructuring has paid off--I anticipate two updates next week to finish this fic!
> 
> Many thanks to IntrovertedWife, who talked through some of the details of this confrontation with me, and helped me untangle just how Solas might handle this situation.

“ _Alistair_!”

Evie hadn’t known she could scream that loudly, but when the blast of magic exploded around Alistair, she could muster no other sound. The blow was so hard he didn’t even stumble, just tipped back like a tree and hit the stones with a sickening _thwack_. Burns bubbled up on his chest and neck, red and raw through the shredded fabric of his shirt.

She fell to her knees and frantically tried to find a pulse in his uninjured wrist. A faint heartbeat fluttered against her fingers, and she could breathe again. Her chest tightened, though, when she realized that the rhythm was unsteady and irregular.

A moment later, Fiona was there by her side, her magic surrounding Alistair. “Oh, Maker,” the mage whispered. “Please, no.”

As Fiona worked, Evie raised her eyes once more to Fen’Harel. Evangeline had closed the distance between them and was raising her sword to strike, but Solas reached out with his magic. For a moment it seemed that Evangeline and her spirit companion might avoid its effects, but then she stopped mid-step, another fly caught in the web of Solas’s control spell. Solas cast a saddened look over at the Templar, a soft “I’m sorry” escaping his lips.

Then, to Evie’s surprise, he looked back at Alistair, his face paling when he saw the extent of the damage. For a moment she had the absurd thought that he might help them—but with a shake of his head, he extended his hands and gestured to one of the mirrors ringing the walls of the receiving room. To Evie’s shock, its surface rippled and changed, revealing a strange labyrinth of rocks and sky that could only be the Crossroads.

_An Eluvian? How could it match the other mirrors? Maker, did he make a new Eluvian?_

Evie stood and began running towards Solas. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do if she caught him, but she was too blind with fury and fear to really care. It proved a moot point. With a burst of speed, Solas fled through the frame of the Eluvian. He turned back, his eyes sorrowful as he watched Evie race towards him. She was only half a pace away when the mirror’s surface swirled and turned back to glass, hiding Fen’Harel from her view.

“No! Damn you, you bastard!”

Evie caught herself on the frame of the mirror and clenched her fingers around the wood, almost sick with frustration. _He was right here._ Right here. _And we couldn’t stop him._

She took a deep breath before forcing herself to turn back to Alistair and Fiona, afraid of what she might see. The High Enchanter was still bent over the King, her face tight with concentration. The burns on his chest and neck looked better, Evie thought—but perhaps that was just a trick of the light, or her own wishful thinking. She willed her hands not to shake.

As Evie crossed the room, Fiona worked for a moment more, then raised her chin and met Evie’s eyes. “I have done what I can. Stay with him,” she commanded, her voice tight and nervous. “I will—there are none more skilled than our healers. Everything that can be done, shall be done.”

Evie nodded, not trusting her voice. She knelt, reaching for Alistair’s hand; it felt cool against hers, the fingers heavy and limp.

_Please, Maker. Please let him be all right._


	12. Bravery

_Denerim, 9:38 Dragon_

"So let me get this straight." Naia's voice was dangerously rational as she set down her glass of brandy. "You hired a pirate and a storytelling dwarf to help you break into a prison run by the Antivan Crows. Then you went searching for Morrigan's sister. _Then_ you went to Tevinter to fight a crazed blood mage who thinks the Theirins bleed magical dragon blood. And you did all of those things _on purpose?!_ "

All things considered, Naia's reaction was less horrified than Alistair probably deserved. But he could feel his guilt seeping through every inch of his body, hunching his shoulders and twisting his mouth in a half-smile, half-grimace. "I ... um. Yes. That's the story, all right." _Except for being captured by the Qunari. I must have glossed over that bit._ "Do you want some more brandy?"

Naia picked up her glass again and stared into its contents. "Andraste's ass, Alistair. No wonder you broke out the expensive stuff." She paused, and Alistair could read the hurt on her face as she tried to form her next question. "Why didn't you _tell_ me? You promised Zev you'd talk to us before you acted on that bloody tip!"

"It was too dangerous ..." he began.

"Bullshit," Naia snapped. "Try again."

Alistair ran a hand over his face. He wasn't entirely sure how to answer that question. Why, exactly, had he run headlong into mostly-certain death without the person he trusted most in the world, the person who had faced a Blight at his side?

When he realized his reason, he wasn't proud of it.

"I ... I didn't want you there."

Naia's green eyes widened, but she took a deep breath and stayed silent while he grappled with the words.

"I wanted to find Maric as badly as I've ever wanted anything in my life." Alistair took a shuddering breath. "I thought—I thought that if he still lived, I wouldn't have to do this any more. I wouldn't have to be King. And I knew that if you were there, I wouldn't—I didn't want you to see how much I would trade, how far I would go, in order to get Maric back."

Silence fell in the room. Alistair's stomach twisted as he waited for Naia to reply.

Finally, his friend leaned forward and rested her hand on Alistair's forearm. Her face was pale and serious. "Alistair, if you need to get out of this, say the word." She raised her chin decisively. "Hang the politics, hang the bannorn. If being King is killing you, _I will get you out."_

Alistair felt his stomach untwist. He should have known that was what she would say. From anyone else it would have been an empty offer. But Naia would do it. No matter the consequences, Naia would help him disappear, would do her best to put Ferelden back together after he'd gone, and would never question if it had been worth the price so long as Alistair was happy.

But he would question it every day.

Alistair put his free hand over Naia's. "No. Finding Maric clarified some things for me. I want—I want to stay. I want to try and be the kind of King Ferelden deserves. Or as close to it as I can manage."

"You _are_ a good King. I wish you could see that," Naia said gently. "I know the bannorn fills your ears with whining, but things are different in Ferelden for elves, for mages. That's your doing."

Alistair smiled a bit. "Do you know, that actually helps. Got any more compliments? Maybe about how brave it was to duel Sten in order to get out of that Qunari prison?"

Naia paled and reached for her brandy. "You're going to have to explain that. After I've finished this glass."

 

* * *

 

_Kinloch Hold, 9:45 Dragon_

Some hours later, Evie looked over at Naia. Once the elf's injuries were healed, the two of them chose to wait in Fiona's office for news of Alistair while Zevran directed the effort to gather Solas's things. Maker willing, there would be clues in his belongings, though Evie suspected that only Cecily stood a chance of deciphering them.

The Hero of Ferelden had ceased her pacing and was now sitting in an armchair, her elbows on her knees and her hands clenched tight together. For the first time since they had met, Naia was utterly still. It was somehow more unnerving than watching her pace.

She seemed to sense Evie's eyes. "You'd think I would be used to this—waiting for mages to patch Alistair up, I mean," she said, staring down at her hands. "He got skewered right through the kidney during the Blight, and even Wynne needed half a day to ... I probably shouldn't tell you this," she finished, grimacing.

"Oh, so that's where that scar came from," Evie said faintly.

Naia stood abruptly. "We need to distract ourselves. So. Uh. Tell me about being one of Leliana's people. What name did she give you? Carpenter? Farmer? Shoe-shiner?"

Evie had forgotten how well the Hero of Ferelden knew the Divine. "Crofter," she replied. "The Inquisition called me Crofter."

"When did she recruit you? Was it before or after Cecily became the Herald?"

"After. And to be honest, she didn't recruit me, exactly," Evie admitted. "I took it upon myself to track down the source of some rumors about the Inquisition in the Free Marches. There seemed to be a lot of people working against Cecy, and it was driving me half mad not to be doing anything about it. Fortunately it turned out that I had a knack for spycraft, so Leliana made it official."

Naia tilted her head to one side and looked at her for a moment. "That was brave of you."

Evie chuckled. "That's quite a compliment, coming from a woman who killed an Archdemon."

The Hero of Ferelden shrugged one shoulder. "I'm not actually sure how brave that was. I didn't have a choice, not really. I think—"

She stopped and paused, as if considering whether she ought to say the next bit. After a moment, she continued, the words precise and careful. "I think Alistair did the bravest thing any of us did during the Blight. He stood up in front of that Landsmeet and said 'We can't trust Anora. Make me King.' Even though he knew he would pay the cost for the rest of his life."

"That _was_ brave of him," Evie said softly. She could picture Alistair at twenty-one, his face nervous but resolved as he spoke those words, and she loved him all over again for it.

_So I suppose the question is, how brave am I?_

The soft creak of hinges startled both women out of their thoughts. Evie unconsciously stood as Fiona entered the room.

The small elf was disheveled and pale, but composed. Evie twisted her fingers in her skirt. Beside her, Naia was utterly still, as frozen as a statue.

"He will live, without serious damage," Fiona said stiffly, her eyes focused on Naia. "Though it was a near thing. And it could have been avoided. How long had you known that we harbored a—I am not even certain what to call Theron."

"A threat," Naia said succinctly. "Not long. Weeks, perhaps."

"And we never would have known had things not gone so horribly awry." Fiona's eyes narrowed. "I see you can keep a secret, when it suits you."

Naia's breath caught; she whistled it out between clenched teeth as she glared back at the mage.

Evie remembered Alistair's stories about Naia losing her temper and decided to intervene. "Some secrets are kept close because they would become too dangerous if widely known," she said, in her most neutral diplomatic tone. "I would hope you might have some sympathy for that dilemma, High Enchanter."

Fiona startled a bit, as if she had forgotten anyone else was there. With some reluctance, she broke her gaze from Naia's and turned to Evie; she inclined her head the barest fraction of an inch, acknowledging the point.

"I suppose now is not the time. He is awake, and will want to see you both."

*

Alistair was lying propped up in a narrow bed that had been hastily set up in an empty ground floor office. He was bare above the waist, and much of the skin on his chest and neck was pale and oddly shiny, with that too-new look of flesh knit together by magic. He grinned when Naia and Evie entered—then winced and put a hand at the side of his face.

"Damn. He burned off half the skin on my jaw. It's all smooth now. I wonder if I'll ever grow a decent beard again."

"You say that as if you could grow one before," Naia teased.

"I liked my goatee! I thought it looked, I don't know, dashing."

"I can't believe this. You had a _goatee_?" Evie asked, pressing her hand to her heart in mock horror.

"What? Me? No. Absolutely not. Ridiculous notion," Alistair said archly. "So. Fen'Harel escaped?"

Evie's shoulders slumped; at her side, so did Naia's. "Andraste's ass, he's powerful," the Hero of Ferelden said, shaking her head. "At least Evie smashed his obelisk."

"And now I know not to try and throw a Smite at him," Alistair said, running his fingers down a patch of new skin on his neck and wincing. "I don't suppose he left any clues behind? Like a big notebook labeled 'My Secret Evil Plan and Index to All of my Weaknesses'?"

Evie laughed at that; Alistair met her eyes and smiled, his face relaxing as he looked at her. Belatedly, she realized how it must have felt for Alistair to find her trapped in Solas's spell.

Naia smiled, started to say something, then looked between the two of them. "You know, I should go check on that. I'll be back if we find any notebooks with master plans. Evie, try to make sure he doesn't pick at that new skin."

Naia wasn't even halfway out the door when Alistair caught Evie's hand and pulled her close. Evie bent her head to kiss him, relief rising in a wave at the familiar feel of his mouth against hers.

"Thank the Maker you're all right," she said, beaming down at him and squeezing his hand. Gently, she ran the fingers of her left hand across Alistair's cheek, avoiding the new skin, reassuring herself that he was really there and still in one piece.

"Oh, it would take more than vicious magical backlash thrown by an elven God to do any real damage." He grinned back—carefully, avoiding pulling at his new skin. "And you? None the worse for wear?"

Evie shook her head. "Whatever that spell was, it was only temporary." Tentatively, she settled one hip against the bed; Alistair moved his legs so she could sit.

"How are you, really?" she asked softly.

Alistair blinked at her tone. "I'm all right. Splendid, even. It's been a while since anyone let me languish in bed all afternoon."

"The conversation with Fiona ... ?"

" ... was awkward," he admitted. "There was some shouting. I'm not sure if we'll ever be a mother and a son. But now we're two people who share the same secret, and it's more than we had before."

"And your head? Feeling clear? No concussions or headaches or any sign that your judgment might be impaired?"

Alistair leaned back, his eyebrows climbing his forehead. "Nnnnoooooo," he said warily.

Evie smiled. "Good. In that case, will you marry me?"

Every inch of Alistair's face lit up. "Evie—Maker. Are you sure? Wait, did _you_ hit your head?"

"I did not. And I'm sure about you—about us. The rest, I can figure out as I go. The way you did." Evie arched an eyebrow. "So am I going to get an answer?"

"Oh, right. Yes." Alistair reached out to cup her face in his hand. "Yes, absolutely, I will marry you. As soon as possible, in fact. Are you doing anything in an hour or so?"

Evie was laughing as she leaned in to kiss him. 


	13. Epilogue

_Denerim, 9:45 Dragon_

In a guest room in the Denerim palace, as Cullen slept at her side, Cecily Trevelyan dreamed.

Her dreams took her, as they often did, to Skyhold. Ghostly figures swept through its courtyard, imitating the bustle of their fortress during the height of the Inquisition. As much as she loved her quieter life with her husband, Cecily felt a pang of homesickness for this place. She glanced down at her left arm and was not surprised to find it whole. It usually was, in Skyhold.

Her feet took her up the familiar stairs to the main hall— _I do not miss that throne,_ she thought wryly—and walked past the shadows of diplomats and soldiers and petitioners crowding the room. Then suddenly, the other figures vanished, leaving her alone.

Alone, save for soft footsteps coming from the eastern tower.

Calmly, with a sense of both frustration and inevitability, Cecily pushed open the door to Solas’s old quarters, where the ancient mage was pacing with his hands behind his back.

As he had during the days of the Inquisition, Solas wore his rough-spun tunic and green trousers, his familiar pendant hanging against his chest. He met her eyes with a faint smile on his face. “I see I was not the only one drawn to Skyhold tonight.”

“It was our home,” Cecily said, tracing the not-stones of the wall with her fingertips as she stepped inside. “Do you ever miss it?”

“I do, to my surprise,” he admitted. “I suppose you must be in Denerim now, for the wedding.”

Cecily felt her Fade-form stiffening; her left arm vanished, replaced with a pinned sleeve and empty air. Solas noticed her reaction. He frowned guiltily. “I was glad to hear that the King survived the unpleasantness at the College. I did not mean to injure him so severely.”

“You always say that—that you don’t want to cause suffering, that you never mean to hurt anyone.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re trying to end our world, Solas. Is death not a hurt?”

Solas looked away from her, his eyes focused on the wall’s murals. “Death is the end that comes to all mortal beings. Suffering, though—suffering is unnecessary, a punishment, a wrong.”

“So you’re sorry you hurt Alistair, but you wouldn’t have been sorry if you killed him?” Cecily asked skeptically.

“I would have been sorry for your sister’s pain.” Solas’s feet shifted beneath him.

Cecily shook her head. “It must be easy to think of death as a simple inevitability, when it’s never something you planned on experiencing yourself.”

“There is nothing _simple_ about it,” Solas snapped, his eyes meeting hers once more. “You think I have not sacrificed—that no one has died to restore our world? Through my carelessness with the Orb I cost Mythal—” He stopped abruptly, then sighed. “I do not wish to argue with you, Inquisitor. This is not something that can be resolved with talk.”

“ _Cecily,_ ” she insisted. “I’m not the Inquisitor any more, Solas.”

His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Are you not? You have gathered allies to your cause. The Hero of Ferelden herself. The King. Your own sister. You would have me believe they do not follow your lead?”

The odd thing was, they didn’t. That wasn’t really how the Nightingales worked. But that wasn’t information Solas needed.

“You’d be surprised at how many people want to help when the entire world is at stake,” she said instead. “It’s not too late to stop this, Solas. What you’re doing is wrong. I know you know it.”

“It would be a greater wrong for me to stop.” Solas’s ancient eyes were filled with regret. “But I do not expect you to agree. Until next time, my friend.”

Skyhold shivered and faded around her, and with a start, Cecily woke.

 

* * *

 

On an ordinary day, Denerim’s largest Chantry could seat seven hundred people comfortably. Today, it sat nearly nine hundred people somewhat uncomfortably. Despite the occasional jostling of elbows, and a few cranky remarks from Orlesians about how Ferelden needed to build a _proper_ cathedral for such events, there were few outright complaints. After all, the only alternative was to miss the King’s long-awaited wedding to Lady Evelyn Trevelyan.

As she stood at the bottom step to the altar, listening to Divine Victoria recite her opening blessing from the dais, Evie breathed deeply, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the pale green satin of her dress. Despite her best efforts, she could not keep her eyes from it—the Queen’s Crown, a golden circlet sitting on a white pillow not ten paces away, awaiting its part in the ceremony.

Beside her, Alistair cleared his throat. “You can still get out of this, you know,” he whispered. His own crown already sat on his head; Evie could see it pressing into his skin, and knew he would bear its line around his forehead long after he took it off for the day. “She hasn’t said ‘husband and wife’ yet. Technically you could run out of here a free woman.”

Evie arched an eyebrow at him. “I think people would notice, don’t you?” she murmured. For emphasis, she cast a subtle glance over her shoulder at the packed Chantry benches. Out of the corner of her eye she could see her mother frowning; at least one person, apparently, had noticed their quiet conversation. “Besides, do you have any idea what my mother would do to me if I ran out of this Chantry right now, after all the work she did planning this wedding?”

“Oh, she’ll forgive you someday. Probably. Come on, let’s run away together!” Alistair waggled his eyebrows, his grin boyish and mischievous. “We’ll find some old toothless priest in a backwoods Chantry to finish the wedding ceremony, and then we can pick new names and raise mabari puppies together.”

Evie had to choke back a laugh. “That is the most adorably Ferelden thing I’ve ever heard. But I think I’ve decided to give this Queen thing a year or two. If it’s not working out, then puppies.”

Alistair gently nudged his elbow against hers. “It’s a deal.”

It would be longer than that, Evie knew. Even after the Calling, even after becoming Ferelden’s only ruler, she would not be able to step away, not knowing what would happen in the chaos that followed a ruler’s abdication. But that would be a problem for a future day—and as Cecily had reminded her so often in the past few days, she would not face that future alone.

She turned her head to her left, where her sister stood as her witness, her eyes slightly misty but her face Inquisitor-serene. Evie stuck out her tongue—just a bit, but enough to make Cecily’s composure crack for a second. At her right, she could see Alistair’s chest rise and fall in a silent laugh, and she next to him she heard Naia let out a soft snort, chuckling into the sleeve of her elegant jacket.

“Ahem.”

Evie looked up guiltily at Leliana, who was watching them with a mixture of affection and saintly patience, her face rosy amidst the white and gold of her robes. “Please, do not let me interrupt,” she murmured.

“Sorry, Your Holiest-ness,” Alistair said with mock contrition.

Her Perfection Divine Victoria rolled her eyes, ever so slightly. “If you are both ready?”

Instinctively, Evie and Alistair reached for each others’ hands. “Of course, Your Holiness,” Evie whispered with a smile, squeezing his fingers in hers as she took the first step forward. “Never readier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I think this may be the last installment in Cecily and Evie's story (gasp!)--I am working on something totally new, and trying to use NaNoWriMo as the kick in the pants I need to really get it moving.
> 
> Can't wait to read more of what the other amazing AO3 writers put out there! Second shoutout to Introverted Wife, whose thoughts on Solas and what motivates him inspired the exchange between Cecily and Solas in this epilogue.


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